Mike Jackson: Something to be truly thankful for this holiday season

I'm sorry to have seen Thanksgiving come and go almost as fast as I can blink my eyes. The same was true for the recent fall season and my annual hunting expeditions.

We sat around the long dining room table passing various dishes from one end to the other. Chewing and slurping sounds took the place of Elvis and "Heartbreak Hotel."

With an eye on the outstanding gravy next to the big bird, it was my turn to talk and make my annual feel-good speech.

I started by telling the family I was grateful for the way my late father schooled me in the way most kids learned the ropes. He presented me with a casting rod and Cox casting reel. It didn't matter that all I had on Channel Lake was a mess of a giant bird's nest clogging the reel.

I graduated to an ancient bamboo fly rod and single-action Heddon fly reel. Bluegills and crappies weren't much of a contest for this kid with my acquired casting skill. But my contemporaries were more interested in White Sox players than learning the fine art of angling.

Age and ability to travel to some of the best fishing spots in the world came as I grew to cash my own checks.

And my teenage buddies were still locked into Chico Carrasquel and "Jungle Jim" Rivera.

I was king of the world when I caught walleye after walleye. My Dad just sat in the back end of our borrowed boat filling his pipe with that sweet-smelling tobacco. I was at the point of no return after I caught the 20th walleye. I was on my way.

"You've got the touch," Irv declared as he looked in the bucket holding my limit.

Back home I raced to my friend Jack's house to show him pictures of me holding a 30-inch muskie I caught on Grindstone Lake. He, in turn, whipped out an autographed baseball for his valiant effort to do one up on me. I turned in a flash and ran home. I didn't need Jack's bragging.

It was like that with the others, the neighborhood guys who played line ball in the alley behind our apartment buildings.

I loved to catch perch from Lake Michigan. It was only when I could afford that extra coin that I could buy some soft-shell crawfish. This was the big time. The craws were just what jumbo perch loved to chase.

Fred was with me on this particular day. We collapsed our extra-long bamboo poles and boarded the bus. We walked from Broadway to the lakefront and began our search for the tasty giants.

I scored big with my bucket full of jumbos while my friend complained he only caught five small fish.

A couple weeks later found myself in the back seat of a neighbor's jalopy on the way to Sox Park. We never made it. My friend's father didn't pull out fast enough while waiting for a green light.

A huge truck slammed into our car and I wound up pinned in the back seat. I was squashed and unable to free myself. Another neighborhood kid wasn't as fortunate. he never made it to the hospital. I realize now how I cheated death and subsequently came home banged up along with a broken arm.

That was a long time ago. And as I told the assembled Thanksgiving celebrants about that close call, I was reminded I had recently been given a second chance at life. I think about that every time I try crawling out of bed and work to stand on shaky feet. I am thankful for the expert doctors and who brought be back from a very debilitating case of double pneumonia.

And soon I'll be thankful for another fishing season tucked in between the memories and a good time.

• Mike Jackson can be heard 8 to 9 a.m. Sundays on WCGO AM-1590.